


Bargain

by wolfycyan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Cowgirl Position, Kissing, M/M, Smut, post-witcher 2, sort of sad but it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfycyan/pseuds/wolfycyan
Summary: The WItcher 2 events had caused a toll for Vernon Roche, and a certain duty at Vizima awaits the Blue Stripes. Maybe the commander forgets the possibility that his enemies too, are in disarray, and their path crosses on the journey.





	1. Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon Roche is anxious about his task, but he sails out to Vizima with a clear intention and unexpectedly meets an old friend.

Vernon Roche barely registers his second-in-command's voice calling for him under the sound of thunder and heavy rain drops strafing the rocky surface of their current hideout cave. His mind is wandering somewhere else too, brown eyes lost in the distance in as the center bonfire in the camp radiates heat beside him, eyebrows knitting together to form a frown. A few soldiers are rushing around, busy loading and stowing essential needs - food, weapons, armour - for the journey the commander will soon set sail upon. His pensive trance is shortly torn by Ves' echoing footsteps.

"Roche, we cannot sail in this heavy rain. Let's gather our energies first," Ves says, approaching the commander who nodded in return, handing away a steaming bowl of chicken stew with vegetables while having another one for herself. Her presence in the camp, the feminine instinct to look out for Roche's and the soldiers' well-being, more often than not has brought relief and thankfulness among them. The nerves in his nose pick up the sweet odour of the stew and immediately his stomach growled, though inaudible under the pitter-patter of the rain. Then he realizes that he's damn well hungry.

Roche accepts the food and continues to eat in silence with Ves - who sensed his anxious behaviour - and five other personally chosen soldiers who will be following the commander in the journey to Vizima. His broad shoulders slightly sag from a heavy sigh, from the vile memory of the events before; eliminating Loredo at Flotsam, unfinished duel with Iorveth, his squad massacred by Henslet in Kaedwen, Loc Muinne, the assassination of Foltest...

 _Now is not the time to mourn, and I'll definitely get that elf scoundrel the next time he falls into our hands,_ thought Roche as he mentally snaps his train of thoughts. As if on cue, the storm dissipated away and all is ready to go. 

#

Roche's boys had successfully gotten a ship near Oxenfurt Harbour, its size big enough to accommodate small built-in rooms under the deck and strong enough to withstand powerful currents through the Pontar. By evening, the commander of the Blue Stripes and his soldiers then begin to sail south towards Vizima. To the Nilfgaaridan Royal Palace. A few months ago, Roche was not even sure if he wanted this, but judging from the current state of Temeria after king Foltest had been murdered, and the king's daughter still too young to reign, and the Blue Stripes  _almost_ in shambles from the damage they had taken up from all sorts of fights, the commander decided he needs to do something, _anything_ for a better Temeria. Even if he needs to whore himself out. Even if he has no other choice than making a deal with Nilfgaard. That is precisely what his journey is about, why he is standing on the deck, and what matters now. 

His soldiers had seemed uneasy when he laid before them the deal - Temeria will be able to rule independently as a sub-state of Nilfgaard, and in return, emperor Emhyr var Emreis will withdraw his forces from Temeria - but they trusted their commander like no one else. Roche would be the last person agreeing terms with Emhyr and claimed the emperor lies as simply as he breathes. _But there aren't any better choices now, are there?_ Roche mutters silently, leaning on the wooden railings, watching his subordinate navigates and manoeuvres the ship, turning the wheel this way and that way. They have sailed for a few hours by now and the sun could be seen setting into the horizon, creating ripples of orange light on the water waves. 

#

Ves appears next to Roche at the deck as midnight rolls, her hands on her hips, short blond hair fluttering with the mellow wind. "You look awful, Roche. I can take the first night shift and you might as well get some sleep," She offers, and to her surprise, Roche does not protest nor remark upon his condition which she commented, but gives her a half-smile. "Fine, wake me after you've finished." He says softly, passing her and retiring into one of the cabins underneath and rolling out his bedding. He slowly drops himself on the bed and stretches out, breaths going deep not even 10 seconds after. The room is not as comfortable if compared to the cheapest room in a tavern, but soldiers like them very much appreciate any guarded and peaceful place to sleep.

At least that is what Vernon Roche gets for the first 2 hours.

#

Roche jolts awake and grabs a sword even before James' - Roche's subordinate - yell reaches his ears. "Commander! We have company!". He hears footsteps running around, a crossbow shot, and a dull _thud_ to the ground. Up at the deck, he turns around just in time to deflect a strong sword attack aimed for the neck and pushes the attacker off the ship into the water. Head whipping around to see the surroundings under the dim moonlight, he swears to the gods he sees pointed ears and hears some damn elven language. There are not many of them however, probably less than ten. Roche found one of his soldiers already lying down, unmoving, and this seems to fuel his rage.  _As if the Nilfgaardian bastards aren't enough!_  Grunting, he raises his sword and charges a swing at an elf from behind, only to be quickly parried when the elf suddenly rotates. The momentum of Roche's swing results in both of them repelling a step backwards from each other, but never letting their weapons down nonetheless.

"Well, I admit I did not expect this ship to be yours, Roche," A voice he too damn well know, rolling the words in a mocking tone with an eyebrow raised.

"Iorveth, you scoundrel," Vernon all but hisses at the Scoia'tael leader and bares his teeth. Now they both are on their guards, standing firmly with offensive stances. Neither one of them wants to be the first to put their sword down. 

The quieting scene around them tells otherwise though, because Iorveth's squirrels are standing at his side and Roche's soldiers at the opposite, clearly and uncomfortably watching their respective leaders staring daggers at each other in a battle stance. Cedric, a mature brown-eyed elf in Iorveth's team is the first to let out a sound, although his words are partially slurred like a drunkard. 

"Iorveth, we cannot bear to lose anyone else now," The curved bow has been slung at his back, raising a hand in defeat and to get the leader's attention. Next to his temple hovers a perfectly aimed crossbow that Ves holds. 

His leader seems hesitant to surrender, though soon does so with a heavy sigh. Roche skims a gaze at the legendary Iorveth, looking like a piece of crap, worse than how he had looked like in Flotsam. Green eye, usually so fueled with rage, has softened now, shadow of defeat and exhaustion cooling it down to a clearer emerald. This is not a raid by the Scoia'tael, that he knows for sure, and Iorveth's unit members lack the fire in their faces, very much like the leader. But to his chagrin, no sign of amusement crossed his mind as the realization dawned upon him that both of them are well beaten-up. 

#

If they had forgiven each other at some point in their lives, it would be the last thing they will admit, even if threatened at knife-point. Therefore Roche is at loss for an explanation if someone, even Ves, is to ask him why the Scoia'tael are receiving help from them rather than thrown off the ship after their necks are slit. She did not question him, thankfully - except shooting him a frown every now and then - and followed her orders.

From his observations, Roche concludes that Iorveth will still be a stubborn goddamn elf no matter how trivial or grandiose the situation, like now, when James is trying his best to disinfect a nasty wound running diagonally on Iorveth's forearm while the said elf, sitting cross-legged on the deck, twists his arm to make the task harder. The other Scoia'tael bare less dreadful injuries compared to their leader, and currently scowling at the dh'oine touching their commander.

"Tell me what is going on and why you are here, or your infected arm might just get a clean cut-off," Roche claims a spot next to Iorveth, the pungent smell like rotten eggs rising from the wound making his face scrunch up. The threat does not seem to scare the elf one bit, for he just scoffed and chuckled, lone-eye not meeting Roche's brown ones.

"Your face earlier tells me you have already guessed what happened, therefore I will not tell you, dh'oine," Iorveth replied, a hint of melancholy in his voice. A flow of water washing his wound caused him to suppress a wince, though the pain visible on the creases of his face. Ciaran, Iorveth's second-in-command, starts to help cleaning and wrapping his arm. The wound had failed to heal since a week after he had gotten it, and the moment he realized that it had become more painful and a fever started to creep into his body, he would not have much time. 

"You will stay here. Along with the other elves, but I need to talk to you later in the cabin. Do anything stupid and all of you will be dumped into the Pontar with a rock tied to your legs," Roche stands and disappears to the rooms, preparing one for an interrogation later.

 _Bloede dh'oine,_ Iorveth silently murmurs, allowing Ciaran to finish the bandaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Roche and Iorveth just exhausted from everything around them.  
> Here goes my first fic. Hope yall like it!


	2. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche tells Iorveth of his plans and tries to strike a deal with the Scoia'tael.

Iorveth feels like he’s either dreaming, or Roche is really out of his mind after their last encounter. Roche is waiting in a small cabin softly illuminated by candelabras and the set-up table at a corner mimicking an interrogation room even has food on it. Vegetables, bread, oats and a water flask. Iorveth paces slowly, settling down on a chair opposite of Roche.

“We stalked your ship from a distance in the forest, and launched a rope line to it. Never quite expected to see you, old friend,” Iorveth prodded, not quite touching the food yet although his stomach protests wildly.

Roche had never wanted to kill Iorveth - to hell if he admitted it - but he cannot deny that the elves often slowed down and interrupted his works. Especially Iorveth’s unit, having a personal vendetta with Roche. Now however he allows a bunch of elves on his ship, sharing food and supplies, and maybe he can get something out of these bastards.

“I know you’re short on salvage, and decided to ambush our ship in hope of getting some.” Roche says after a moment as Iorveth begins to tear small pieces of bread and feeds himself in front of Roche, swallowing his pride after all.

“What’s your point?” The elf almost hisses at Roche, green eye narrowing as his jaws move to chew the food. Food that tastes way better than the roots he had been eating in the forest.

“If we give you some supplies and help the Scoia’tael, in return you help defend Teme-"

"Why the hell would I agree to that, dh'oine? Why would you help us in the first place?," Iorveth raised his voice, fist slamming on the table and jaw clenching. Not everyone can be trusted in these times. After the events in Loc Muinne he had regrouped the remaining Scoia'tael and moved south to camp somewhere else, though not having a specific goal in mind. They needed a place to lick their wounds and time to formulate a plan. Precisely, Roche wishes to give them just that.

In other words, the Scoia'tael leader did not know what to do. Until he decided to ambush this particular ship and sitting in front of Roche now.

"Because Temeria will be under self-rule. Soon, after the dealings with the emperor at Vizima." Roche explained.

That seems to put surprise over Iorveth's face for a mere second and his eye softened back. The Scoia'tael could use some help at the moment, yes, but is it worth defending Temeria in return? Will they want to fight for Temeria, for _humans_? "Nilfgaard used us once. The Scoia'tael will not commit to the same error, Roche," He shakes his head at the grave memory of the second Northen War with Nilfgaard. How he survived the massacre at the Ravines of Hydra along with Isengrim, how he looked at his comrades being dumped into it, how empty he felt after everything. 

As if hearing his thoughts out loud, Roche added, "The Scoia'tael will be independent and so will the non-humans in Temeria. We shall provide you with supplies, in condition you will stop burning the villages or killing people, and start protecting them instead," When received an angry face, he continued "Listen, I know the Scoia'tael is on the verge of retreating and finding a new purpose, wandering in the cold and starving. Help us, Iorveth. You shall be allowed access to the elven ruins scattered among the Temerian lands as you wish,"

"And if I refuse?" Iorveth crosses his arms on his chest, voice deepening.

"Then we will drop all of you into the river," Roche answered quite cheerfully and matter-of-factly.

Roche could see the gears and knobs turning in the elf's mind, weighing all the consequences for a few minutes. 

_S_ _hit, I am dreaming after all._ Mused Iorveth, but he extended a hand to shake with Roche's awaiting one anyway, signs of a smile forming at their lips.

 

#

 

It suddenly rains without a warning when the ship's inhabitants are standing openly on the deck and forced them to retreat inside, avoiding being soaked in a cold, breezy night. The sun will rise again to begin a new day in a few hours but both the elves and humans alike find themselves unable to sleep. Ciaran, Cedric and Iorveth are discussing matters in the latter's room, most probably regarding the leader's prior conversation with Vernon Roche. 

The subject of their discussion was confirmed in the hard lines of their faces as they walked out from the room to the next one that the other elves have camped in.

Iorveth breathes a long sigh and closes his eye when all alone in the room, but the short moment of peace is disrupted with a bothersome knock at the door. The elf shoots a glance at it, seeing Roche making his way into the room like he owns the goddamn place which he does. In his hands a box of medical supplies, fresh bandages, a basin and washcloth and a water flask, all placed on a table near the further corner of the room.

"For your wound" Roche grimly says while he begins to walk out. 

Without saying a word, the elf slowly pries open the bloodied layers of bandage from his arm and attempts to clean the wound himself, but it's a messy job because of the pain when the air hits the torn flesh and his other good hand is shaking. At least it stopped when another pair of hands, warmer and coarser than his own, suddenly flicked his hand away and started to tend to the flesh. "This needs stitching if you want to stay alive," Roche placed a basin beneath Iorveth's arm and rinses the wound, making the elf groan and Roche's lips quirk upwards. 

Not one of them says anything when Roche stitches the elf's arm attentively, save for their breathing. Deft, long fingers whirling the thread in a clockwise direction along the flesh and finishing with a knot. Iorveth notices that Roche's arms, now exposed as he had rolled up the sleeves to the elbows, are peppered with small and big scars like Gwynbleidd's. Some has healed perfectly, some are still healing, and a particular one that appears from his wrist running up on the whole length of his arms and disappearing into the sleeve makes him wonder what-

"It's done. Avoid moving too much or you'll waste my efforts," Roche says as he secures the bandage over the stitching and continues to arrange the supplies neatly near the wall.

Just as Iorveth thought Roche would go the hell away from his space, the Blue Stripes commander fished out an alcohol flask from his coat and took a short sip, sitting opposite to Iorveth who scoffed in return, finding the sight amusing nonetheless. 

"Ending up on a ship with the dh'oine I wanted to kill, what can I say? This is very fateful, Roche." Iorveth drawls and accepted the flask Roche handed to him, genuinely surprised at his own casual actions with this human. Their fingers briefly touched, and it sends a shiver down their bodies. _It's just the cold night_ , both of them would deny.

"But you didn't kill me. Someone's gone soft, I would presume." Roche replied, not losing the tease in his voice. Brown eyes glinting into shades of cinnamon as they reflect the fire in the candles. 

"If I did, that blonde woman would shoot an arrow in Cedric's head and the others, therefore no, not this time," Shaking and raising his head upwards to meet Roche's gaze, he finally realizes how close they were. And how Roche's cinnamon eyes are drooping half-lidded from the effects of the alcohol. 

"And if you did, I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?," Roche mutters as soft as honey, head tilted sideways and voice dropping an octave lower while looking directly into Iorveth's green eye. 

The elf is far too old to not notice the suggestion in Vernon's posture.

Iorveth never had a relationship with a man, but at times the nights and winters in the forests were  _too_ cold that he could use somebody to share even a little heat. Iorveth and Elwynn would _at least_ cuddle up in either one of their tents, desperate for body warmth. Elwynn, Iorveth's wingman at that time, was tall even for an elf, with short black hair, strong jawline and his sapphire eyes that never failed to remind Iorveth of the summer skies. 

Maybe he should have set out to find Elwynn before ending up here. 

"You're playing with fire, Vernon. I would assume you're hitting on me, considering _this,"_ The elf gestures at the closing space between them with his good hand, voice laced with venom, green eye burning with annoyance and tension, all traces of tease gone. 

A hand wraps around his hovering one to still him.

"You're a smart man, Iorveth," His voice is a quiet whisper three inches from the elf's face. "I trust you to assume the right thing"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling the second chapter is better than the first one in terms of the story. Also, say hello to our new OC Elwynn! He's around the same age as Iorveth is. I might write about him in a different story later on. Tell me what do you think of him so far :)
> 
> PS. smut coming up soon i promize


	3. Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company arrives in Vizima to settle formal work with the emperor, and our pairing steps in a new place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the Elder Speech from the witcher wikipedia in the story, and for the ones that aren't listed there, I use Welsh. All translations are at the end chapter notes  
> [Please kill me I don't know a thing about politics]

_The battle was almost over but the Scoia'tael commander was stabbed from a sword blow that caused him to retreat, leaving the job to his soldiers. Iorveth trudged along the grass of the base camp while clasping an injured abdomen until he toppled over near a tree trunk as world went black in his vision._

_"Diolch, Elwynn," He later woke up laid in a tent half naked. The gushing wound at the abdomen had been patched up most probably by Elwynn at his side who only smiled in return._

_#_

If there existed a person who could read Iorveth like an open book, it was Elwynn. Unyielding and strong to the other soldiers, Iorveth would never show any signs of fragility and relentlessly guided them fights after fights. However, as little as he wants to admit, being an elf also means being capable of conceiving emotions, and those were the times where Elwynn could see through him like a glass when others thought he was fine. 

At times he is a fierce leader, but sometimes he is just a normal man. 

But he does not know which one he is now when Vernon Roche is slowly closing the space between them with hands at both sides of his crossed legs.

The contact never came, however. Instead, Vernon halted when the curves of his lips are mere _one_ inch from Iorveth's. The bastard furrows his eyebrows. _What are you doing?_ Does Roche notices something in him, or it's not more than the alcohol's actions? As if seeing the hesitance, he doesn't even feel the pain shooting into the muscles in the injured arm as he strikes a palm so fast against Roche's cheek, interjecting the initial silence with a sharp _crack_ of skin on skin. 

For a good few seconds, they both are speechless. The only sound audible in the room is the water swashing underneath.

 _Dh'oine...that_ _ought to wake him up._  When Roche's eyes meet his once again, he expects Roche to back down from his efforts. He parts his mouth, but what comes out is an annoyed grunt when Roche dives his head to latch their lips together in a smack. Instinctively, he grips a hand so hard around Roche's neck, but its warmth and how the hard veins run underneath his fingers makes him glide his mouth against Roche's instead, surprising himself. "I'm going to slap you again." He mutters between hungry kisses. Roche's lips are impossibly soft - and skillful - and although the taste of alcohol is there, they are warm. Warmer than what he could have imagined. It makes him unable to deny the curiosity of going down with this - with Roche?. That, and the building heat wandering in his stomach when the Blue Stripes commander tentatively curves his tongue into his mouth.

He is busy pulling away Roche's chaperone from his head, all the while trying to counterattack in the tongue war he is losing. He grasps blindly at his temple, ears and short brown locks before he hears a sharp gasp that does not come from Roche, but from the doorway. 

"Iorveth?" The person turns out to be Cedric, whose eyebrows are disappearing into his hairline, eyes darting back and forth from Iorveth and Roche who share the same reaction. The former extracts his hands from the latter right away and they both rise to their feet. Cedric only mutters an apology, although the astonishment is visible on his face. "S _quaess'me."_ He forms a tiny smirk. "I've come to discuss a matter, though I believe I had unfortunately interrupted a moment."

"Come in." Iorveth shoots Roche a final look. _Get out._

He closes the door and thank the _gods_ that it was particularly him who walked on them, and not anyone else. "Not a word, Cedric. To anyone." Ves would tear his head off if she was to replace Cedric that time (and again, it wasn't _him_ who had initiated the contact in the first place). 

“Of course. I’ve known more...intriguing situations in my life. May we talk?"

#

Dawn arrives with a promising clear sky and the ship later stops at a harbour in Vizima approximately in late afternoon. The port, located at an intersection of important trade routes, is also a stop by cogs transporting crafting materials from Mahakam in the east, rare herbs like winter cherry grown in Toussaint from the south, and goods from further downwards from Nilfgaard. Apparently some Nilfgaardian officers are already expecting them, and they are given saddled horses for the ride to the palace. Iorveth last visited the capital of Termeria nearly thirty years ago. It remains as home to various kinds of people and host for travelers from around the world. He recalls the uprising of humans against non-humans here, the latter being pushed into a divided slum, called the Old Vizima. _I hope this peaceful agreement will change that._

They part ways with the others near the entrance to the palace, not wishing to meddle in politics with Nilfgaard since the latest war, fighting alongside the empire but ended up being sacrificed. Opting to camp for the moment in a forest close to the palace grants time to clean and repair their weapons, armours and craft more arrows. _The forest is where we best belong_ , Iorveth cherishes the evening sunlight that falls upon their camp, listening to the harmony of birds chirping in the trees while cleaning his armour in a small stream.

“Caed'mil. Did you have a strong drink last night?” The water splashes as a pair of feet drops next to his.

"Are you trying to mock me, Cedric?" He pauses his cleaning to raise an eyebrow at the question. 

"Have you spoken to him about it?" Cedric plunges his boots richly into the clean water and starts scraping off filth.

"There is nothing to be spoken of." 

"About the a'baeth?" 

He only pursed his lips in response. 

There are not much to be done in a company of four elves. He delegates hunting to a pair while Ciaran dries out the washed armours and he sets the fire. They all ate in silence, anticipating the return of their...friends. 

"The agreement's signed. We're heading to a tavern to celebrate." Iorveth turned to face a tired Roche an hour later, nodding as he orders the group to pack up and leave.

 #

Much like the Chameleon in Novigrad, the Gambler's den uses a dim lighting as an atmosphere which suits the dark, wooden interior. The Scoia'tael and the Blue Stripes are merely regarded with plain glances from nobles playing gwent while sipping wine as they walk in, claiming a wide table at a corner. "The large table will have mead and fresh pâté per person" Iorveth points the innkeeper to the direction where the group are currently chatting. "Please." He manages a polite face and paid the services collectively in advance.

"Y-yes, of course, master!" 

He begins to sink his teeth into the luscious fillings of the pâté when he feels a knee brushing against his under the table. 

He pulled his legs further towards himself. "Behave, Roche. I hope you're not drunk yet. It's surprising how you have such low tolerance for alcohol." He takes another bite. Around them, the chitter chatter about the differences in human and elven bows are loud enough.

"It was not on purpose." Roche is halfway through his mead, grinning like an idiot. "You're starting to imagine things"

He receives another nudge to the shin, just after he tips his head backwards to finish the mead. He only complains with an eye-roll.

The topic of the conversation has changed to food, after Ves questions the elves of their diet. Iorveth assumes it will be some time until they retire for the night. 

“Ciaran, look after the others. I’ll be in my room if you need me.” He makes a beeline for the stairs after Ciaran nodded in return, shutting the room door behind him and shrugging off his armour. Only dressed in a thin soft green tunic and a pair of jerkins, he opens the window to let the chilly summer night air flow in the room, running over his face and neck. The window overlooks a part of the city and some cobblestone roads, still lively at this time of the night. Bands playing flutes, couples and friends singing along and giggling like children. 

He props himself on the bed at the middle of the room and plucks some grapes placed at the bedside table and popping them in his mouth. How long has it been since he last felt a bit of peace? Or slept in a proper bed? Or slept knowing that his comrades are safe?

Whenever he had free time - which was rare, considering how busy he is every day - napping on a shady tree trunk would be his favourite pastime. Tonight, he is able to sleep without interruption at least until the dawn comes. There are dull footsteps at the corridor of his room - probably the others walking to theirs - lulling him to sleep. How the duvet sinks beneath his weight is just perfect. That is the moment when he flings his arms above his head to find a comfortable position, only to collide with the headboard. He forgets that the fur beds in the tents are completely different, and he also forgets about the stitching he got a few days ago. 

Blood spills down his right arm and drips on the bed sheets. He sits flabbergasted, groaning while clutching the numb limb onto his chest, where his tunic quickly catches the blood. It’s not the worst kind of pain he’s gone through, but _damn_ it stings. 

“Shit, the stitches are open.” He whimpers, making his bloodied way down the staircase to retrieve some bandages in the stash. Thankfully most of the crowd have gone home or to their rooms, so he just has to run straight for it. 

“What the _fuck_ happened?!” He doesn’t have to turn around to know who is hissing behind him, because the person is already making his way. 

“Can’t you see, dh’oine?” He shouts back, surprised to find that he could be sarcastic when so much blood is oozing out from the flesh. Dh'oine just can't be patient.

“Fuck.” Roche kneels at the stash, scowling as he rummages through. He is not even drunk, perhaps from the face he makes, trying hard to determine which solution and needle to take. Or perhaps because his head is pounding from the blood loss. Whatever it is, the innkeeper must have heard the fuss, and he hurriedly brings some towels and a basin of water to them. 

“Send those my room upstairs, please. I will look after him. We don’t need to attract any attention." Iorveth is just about to protest on that unnecessary commanding tone, but he's dizzy and already being guided by the hand into Roche's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the scene in WItcher 3 'Reason of State'? The way Roche says 'What- Why? How the fuck???" at the end of it is just so lovely. 
> 
> "diolch" - thanks  
> "dh'oine" - human  
> "squaess'me" - forgive me  
> "a'baeth" - kiss  
> "caed'mil" - greetings


	4. Slumber

Iorveth silently grumbles as Roche cuts off the remaining thread to finish the suture, but doesn't complain otherwise. He scrutinizes the neat technique similar to the one he received before. It looks like a surgeon’s work. Like Roche had done it a thousand times. The looping threads makes him wonder if the dh’oine had been a medic at some point. Or his temper often gets him in trouble that he needs to stitch himself up after fights. That seems more likely the case.

Seeing Roche making his way to the door, he finally decides to stop him for a while.

"How did you learn to stitch?” He asks.

The man turns to meet him. He shrugs, eyebrows rising, like it isn't a very important piece of detail in his life. 

“From a medic. When I first joined the Special Forces...5 years ago," His gaze turns sombre, as if reminiscing a distant memory. 

“That reminds me, I’ll get some painkillers. You can't do anything with that, if we decide to depart tomorrow. And I‘d rather not stay here with you.”

”Afraid of me?” The question escapes his lips before he could snap them shut, but he covers for the nervousness by leaning against a table.

“Hah! You think a broken arm can do so much? I can fling you out of the window like haystack, and you’ll be dead in not even a minute.” He points to the open window overlooking the dark night sky, an edginess in his voice that Iorveth has long ago associated with him.

“Your threats are empty, Roche. They always have been. You’re all bark and no bite.” He shakes his head. 

“Oh, trust me, you’ll change your mind.”

“Can’t you remember? You did not even have any guts to finish me in Flotsam.” 

Right.

_Flotsam._

It all replays in his head. The duel in the thick forest that had separated them from the world..The close proximity as their blades clank in fury. The figure towering above him as he lay defeated on— 

“What about Flotsam?” Roche prods, losing the entire bite in his voice as if foreshadowing his thoughts.

He could hear the air particles screaming at him, demanding him to say something to fill the dread silence. Normally, this is the time when he starts throwing insults. He could think of a hundred.  _I’ll kill you. I’ll tear your limbs apart. You whoreson._ And yet none manage to get past his mouth.

Roche is still looking right at him.

He tries to scoff the whole thing away, eye darting anywhere but on Roche’s, which don’t seem to yield to his ignorance. 

Thankfully after a painful stretch of silence he seems to understand it as as a cue to leave, but not before casting a look Iorveth could not fathom.  

Then he’s gone, leaving him alone in the chilly room. He strips from the blood-patched tunic and tosses it - probably harder than he means to - into a basket. He welcomes the cold wind on his bare skin, refreshing like iced water on a hot day. It makes him relax a little, and considers keeping the window open so that he could wake up with morning sunlight filtering into the room. 

He sits on the bed sleepily. Comfort settles in him despite the wound still aching. He openly smiles, until suddenly a consciousness reminds him of the state of undress. His brows knits as he tuns around just in time when Roche sits next to him, shoulders almost touching. Roche’s blue leather coat tickles his skin in ways he wishes he could deny.

Their fingers briefly brush as he takes the cup from Roche's hand. Not for the first time, his jaw clenches from the simple contact.

"Should I be surprised it isn't poison?" He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the bitter taste of calendine petals mixed with ergot seeds travelling down his throat.

"You'll regret that question."

He huffs an amused breath that is quite close to a laugh.

They say nothing else for a cluster of seconds, just sitting on the bed and staring at an interesting spot on the wooden floor. 

"You helped us, Roche. We both know you wouldn’t were we to meet under different times." He exhales. “Thank you.”

Deigning an appreciation to the - former - enemy has sounded easier in his head. Not that he prioritizes dignity in the private presence nonetheless. 

On the other hand, Roche paused, looking at the elf frowning at a patch on the wall as if it has offended his soldiers. 

"Yes, I— you do— " He stutters.

Iorveth tilts his head to bark a remark. Maybe take back his gratitude.

Yet he is greeted by darkness in his vision and wetness on his lips.

He feels his danger sensors betray him by not caring to retaliate anymore. The empty cup slips from his hand, clattering on the ground, released by its holder that is now somewhere in Roche's clothes. 

The kiss mimics the one they had shared not two days ago, except deliberately slower and sensual. It is steady, but they gradually grow hungry. Iorveth emits a tiny gasp when Roche touches his waist. His palms feel like sandpaper on his skin.

He leans in just when Roche breaks the kiss. An immediate complain begins to form at his lips, but it turns into a startled moan as Roche attacks his neck. Latching his teeth on the ivy Scoia’tael tattoo, licking a wet path down to the hollow of his collarbone. He realizes that somehow he is lying on his back with Roche above him, his face buried somewhere in his chest. When—? 

The small thought vanishes as pleasure blooms in his loins. Roche has slot himself snugly in between his thighs, effortlessly creating a delicious friction he bet neither of them had felt for so long. His nerves are jumping merrily, defying the brain's order to sit still. His feet are crossing at Roche's back, toes curling. _Lust. I can't stop it._  His hands, oh- his hands- where are they?

Roche pulls away with a loud 'pop'. A glance at him tells that he's suddenly half naked as he is. He remembers not when that happened, but it does not matter anymore. His tanned skin is glossy under the flickering candle lights. Iorveth doesn’t want to admire his sturdy shape - more muscular than his own natural lean build - nor his jaw and nose that appears more prominent with the absence of the chaperone. Nor how he feels tempted to pull those dark brown locks and push his face into different parts of his body. 

"Are you quite done staring?" Roche mutters, voice hoarse and thick with desire. 

Iorveth tares his gaze away albeit reluctantly. “Finish what you started, dh'oine." He has no intention of mocking, but what he receives in return is pleasurably torturous. 

He let out a strangled moan, chin pointing to the ceiling as his clothed erection is squeezed mercilessly without any warning. 

"Ysgar— thiad!" He cursed.

"One more time I hear that, I'll make sure you can't walk a step tomorrow." Roche inserts such a commanding tone that Iorveth quickly grits his teeth. From shame or arousal, he doesn’t know. 

All of a sudden the hand is gone, only to hold red headband instead. He wants to take it off! He has no choice but to move the scarred side of his face into the pillow, hiding in secrecy of the shadows. 

But Roche isn’t having all that. He pulls his jaw forcefully so that he is facing him, and scans the cicatrix. Grizzly. Deep. Whoever did this had little to no mercy to spare.

Iorveth shuts his eye and allows a few seconds of trust. His shoulders tense in anticipation of Roche’s next move. A slap? A punch?

He doesn’t manage to peel his eyelid open before his lips are claimed again.

Waiting for a moment, he searches for any signs of apprehension from the man. There is none. He tentatively moves against Roche’s lips, initially soft and gradually fierce, and grinds himself up on his hips. Roche pulls away when his fingers successfully hook into the waistband of his jerkin. He shoots Iorveth a smirk, but what he expects from him does not happen at all.

It's surprising that Roche has a grain of self-restraint to not dive straight for the dangling meat. Instead, he nibbles the pointy tip of his ear as if it's a dessert delicacy while lowering a hand to rub the insides of his thighs and all over his groin area. Unfortunately,  the hand doesn’t quite reach the perfect spot Iorveth desperately wants it to.

After a minute, he starts to groan and sigh.

"Is our elf impatient? Has it been a while?" Roche whispered coarsely, the gravelly voice reverberating from his ear straight to his stomach.

”It is unfair if you're teasing me, dh’oi—Ah!” The hiss bubbling at his mouth instantly diminishes into a strangled groan of pain as his bulge is tightly pressed again. 

“What did I say about that?” The interrogative voice.  

“Roche,”

”No.”

” _Vernon_.”

His name rolls off his tongue as easily as it did when they first met in Flotsam. And when they shout at the battlefields. Or in any other times they crossed path, but only now that it sounds so spicy. 

He gets a small 'good' from the commander before rewarded with a lick on a nipple.

The warm tongue comes so unexpectedly, and the sudden pleasure so overwhelming that he couldn’t resist the urge to grab a hold of Roche’s hair.

Roche growls in response. The vibration travels through him like a tuning fork. He could feel his own face heating up from both embarrassment and desire, and his every nerve being overly sensitive.

He swallows a whimper when Roche begins to fondle his erection while never breaking his gaze on him. A feather-light touch trails up and down his clothed length, moving purposedly slow. His hips threaten to thrust itself into the hand, so he plants them hard on the bed. He knows what Roche wants. He should've seen it from the beginning. 

"Are you alright?" Roche asks, or maybe trying to get Iorveth's voice out to listen how it quivers beneath his touch. 

Iorveth summons all his strength to fight the fog of arousal over his head. "Excellent question. I can ask the same for you."

And his trousers are pulled down, rendering him completely naked. This time, he doesn't hold in a sigh as cold air kisses his heated skin. Roche throws the jerkin somewhere in the room and begins to strip himself bare, strategically standing in Iorveth's direct line of vision. Roche's cock springs up as the last of the last garment falls onto the wooden floor, and the sight stirs something in Iorveth. 

Roche makes his way to him, both of them trying hard to lock their eyes on their faces without trailing down. Iorveth abruptly spins Roche around so that he is lying on the bed, back leaned against the headboard, and settles graciously on his wonderful thighs. Roche doesn't seem to mind the change of control at all, judging from a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Grab the oil under the bed."

He bends over for it while a pair of hands keep him stable, and chuckles while he pours the liquid on his palms. It’s actually _sword_ oil. 

“I imagine this has help you a lot in dire situations, commander? No wench wants you?” He says, half joking and half serious.

"Maybe _you_ are the wench." Roche says, flashing a triumphant smile as he watches Iorveth oil his cock. The elf's long fingers teases the underskin at the tip.

"I do not want you, Roche. Stop selling yourself." He raises his hips to align his entrance with Roche's cock. 

The stretch is painful at first, but he slowly adjusts to the size as he sinks down, thanks to the oil. 

“Fuck,” His voice is tight. “Ride me.”

Iorveth eagerly rolls his hips forward. The slick shaft makes his skin jump and his breaths shorter. He presses his chest flush on Roche’s, resting the injured arm on his shoulder while the other claws at the taut muscles on his back. 

They move in unison, setting a rhythm like the ocean waves lapping the rocks, receding only to strike again. Roche snaps his hips up to meet Iorveth’s thrusts and they both cry out, filling the room with sounds of skin smacking skin and intimate soft moans.

He tilts his head up to hold Iorveth’s gaze while he fucks him. The sex is so silent yet utterly suggestive. The quiet sighs, the eye contacts, their hands seeking more skin to touch, the choking gasps, the teeth and tongue and nails. 

Iorveth kisses the lush lips while he impales himself on Roche. His abs tighten every time the tip of Roche’s cock assault a delicate spot that makes him weak in the knees.

He couldn’t decipher the nasty whispers in his ears. They sound distant, far away, but vicious at the same time. The ridges on his ears tingles as Roche’s tongue move on them. Iorveth forces him to fuck him faster, thrusting his hips like how he would urge a horse into a gallop. 

A series of thunder rolls in the sky from a distance. Howls of moans erupting from the room soon follows.

“Ver—“ He trails off, face reddening as he rides the last waves of his high. Roche isn’t too far either. His heartbeat is audible in Iorveth's ears. 

The elf half pants and half whimpers when Roche snakes a hand to pump his cock. "Yes." He bites Roche’s shoulder, sensing his climax chasing him, hot on his heels like a starving wolf.

“Come.  _Now_.” Roche growls and cups his balls just as his cock smashes against a sweet spot.

His thigh muscles strain as he comes blindingly afterwards. His load shoots on Roche’s sweaty stomach, decorating the tanned skin with a contrast. The shock makes him tighten his muscles around Roche who is still in him too, provoking a long moan from the man and a wet burst of heat deep inside. 

Catching their breaths, they lay their foreheads on each other’s shoulders, eyes closed and chest heaving. Roche slowly pulls himself out to lie properly on the bed, placing an arm on his temple. 

Iorveth follows, flopping unceremoniously next to Roche. The room is warm despite the night, and the air smells musky. He exhales a tired huff, eyelids heavy as the happy hormones of after-sex settles in his veins. 

Spending a night fulfilling the dh’oine’s basic carnal desires isn’t so bad, he thinks. For all he knows, it would pass as a healthy distraction in the future. 

Under the dim orange candle lights and the warmth radiating next to him, his breath goes flat not even three minutes after. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ysgarthiad" = Shit
> 
> Another chapter to go!  
> Thanks so much for reading this silly thing, really. I'm so happy for Iorveth getting laid by his nemesis.


	5. Chapter 5

He stirs from a heavy slumber at the flapping of chaffinches on the window sill. He stretches out like a cat, entangled in bed sheets and blankets smeared with shafts of bright sunlight. Now he's awake, fully than he had ever been in this past few days of difficulties. He rubs the sleep off his eyes with a knuckle.  
  
Sitting up and taking in a sleeping figure next to him, facing his posterior, breathing calm and even, the recollection of past night flashes through his mind, clear as day and detailed as an exquisite carving. He jumps from the bed swiftly as if Roche were a fireball, but almost lose his footings as his hips threaten to wobble. From the abandoned cup under the bed, to the stained bed sheet, and waking up utterly nude with a naked Roche next to him, he evidently remembers what happened in this very room.  
  
_Filthy_. He fishes out his jerkin from the scattered pile of clothes on the floor and dusts it with flicks of his hand. Halfway through the right leg, Roche rises and yawns suddenly, scratching his neck in the process.  
  
Unbelieving at it is, he could legitemately admit that the purple and red angry bruises lining Roche’s neck are from his own doings.  
  
Roche shoots him a frown, as if he hadn’t played a part in this. But he couldn’t place the blame entirely on him either way.  
  
If he feels the same as he does, Roche doesn't show it. Maybe he often gets into one night stands, after all.  
  
Roche glances at Iorveth's trailing gaze. “What? Want a good morning kiss?” Roche shifts out of bed, snatching his undergarment from the floor.  
  
Iorveth couldn’t believe he was _bouncing_ on this man’s cock.  
  
“Kiss my arse, dh’oine.” He scoffs, bending down to pick up his scarf and tunic. The blood on it had dried, leaving a crusty layer of brown. He probably needs to go and pay an extra coin for the bloody mess he caused in his bed.  
  
Without sparing a look at Roche, he reaches for the knob, only to hear approaching footsteps from behind and being pulled suddenly by the waistband. Roche turns him around, slamming him on the door as he presses himself on the elf.   
  
“Oh, I can definitely do that now.” He whispers darkly under Iorveth’s ear, planting his hands on the door, at the sides of his head. His breath tickles Iorveth’s neck, lips grazing the skin he broke last night. 

Iorveth is too old to wake up hard. Everyone were young once, at it was the times such thing happened. 

Pressing a thigh lightly between his legs, Roche felt hard already. A chuckle leaves his lips. “You do realize more important job awaits?” It's no surprise that Roche could behave like a slutty teenager in heat. But he would be consenting if being asked a favour. 

“What about Ves? Does she wishes to check on her commander only to stumble upon him ploughing?” He continues. Roche is quiet for a while.  
  
“Imagine that, Roche.” He purrs, head tilting to the side. Pressing the buttons that tick Roche off.

Roche’s hand reaches for his hip and he catches it, smirking. “You'll thank me later.” He says, and they fuck again.  
  
#  
  
The squirrels knows more than to expect any answers from their leader if he observably refuses. They understand the silent gesture at once, and give a curt nod. On the other hand, it isn’t as if the fact is mistakable on his face with just a glance.  
  
Iorveth shows up at the tables downstairs limping, hips aching like hell because of one dh'oine. Thank the stars the tavern is empty at such times, although it is considerably late for the other elves are up and going already. Roche follows soon, both of them clearly dappled with bruises along the jaw and neck, even if they had changed into their armours beforehand.  
  
He’d tell Cedric to stuff it up his arse when he quirks an eyebrow to him. The old elf would never cease pestering him like an elder sibling since he had brought him into the unit. Not that Iorveth would complain, it's good having someone sensible, and older, that he could look up to.

Calling and gathering everyone at a table, he begins to plan the next course.   
  
“We will stop at the other commando camps in Temeria and speak to them. They're mostly in the deep forests.” He points over the marked spots on a laid out map with an index finger, explaining the routes to get there, the traps, how some Scoia'tael members he knows would react, that not all of them would wholeheartedly agree with him.  
  
Roche, standing next to him, adds. “Word should be out by now. My unit will cover if anything happens.” He nods firmly in reassurance, and the other humans straightened their backs in confirmation.  
  
Killing the distrust forming in his guts, Iorveth nods back. "Of course." It's easy to miss the lingering gazes between them when donned in full armour, all business-like, when the truth is that they'd been fucking.  
  
Either way, a small part of him feels consoled and glad that the humans - at least for Roche’s guerrilla, notoriously known as elves hunter - could now verbally recognize his authority and paint the squirrels a proper picture, yet it is too early to consider themselves as 'allies'. Another part, instead, knows that this peace does not prove an end to his fight. That elves in other places of the world are still hiding, scared and anxious.

At least he wouldn't let a man like Vernon Roche slip away from his gaze.

He folds the map, cleans off the bread crumbs from his lap, and re-inspects his bow. 

In the stables, where he's alone, tacking up their horses, Roche appears next to him while he's stroking his chestnut's mane, and tips him over while kissing him hard. It has an urgency in it that Iorveth almost wonders if Roche is always horny all the time.

"If you'd like a repeat sometime, you need to merely ask." He chuckles, and hoists himself up the saddle to lead away.  
  
He wonders if this is worth what he’s been fighting for in most of his life. That at the end, a truce with Temeria, and partly Nilfgaard, is all they need. If elves would finally live in broad sunlight without fear of their lives hanging on a thread. If non-humans and humans alike could drink together in taverns, singing to the same song, laughing at the same jokes. If he would still play cat-and-dog with Roche, knowing that he'll probably say _va faill_ and watch him die out of old age, since he's so hard to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> va faill = goodbye


End file.
